


How It Is

by counterheist



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, M/M, Obsession, Teenagers, UST, but - Freeform, probable anachronisms, spain no, spain stop, spain you creepy fuck, the 1600s were not kind to you, underage because of spain in the second chapter being a creepy fuck, yes teenmano is hundreds of years old
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:38:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/counterheist/pseuds/counterheist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how it is in the house of the never-setting sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Exactly Like That

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slouphblog](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=slouphblog).



> Originally at [spamanosecretvalentine 2012](http://spamano-secretvalentine.tumblr.com/post/43135819614/valentine-for-slouph).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Romano lies awake at night he thinks about Spain. Not like _that_.

In those spare moments when the entire house goes still, Romano thinks about other boys. Not like _that_! He thinks about how other boys must grow up in their houses of stone, and wood, and… and not like that! Romano doesn’t think about things like that, because Romano is a good boy, and his thoughts are as pure as a snowy field. And, much as he feels towards snowy fields, he hates his thoughts. Snowy fields are stupid, and cold, and they make your lower half wet all over when you have to run through them, and Romano hates it, although his thoughts aren’t like that at all, not one bit. No, Romano’s thoughts aren’t cold or wet, and they certainly aren’t stupid, but they are still frozen, frigid February snow in the mountain passes, slipping down into his boots and he hates them all the same.

Except Romano’s a man now, not a boy. Boys are beneath him. Yeah, right benea— not like that!

Dammit. Dammit, Romano is a young man, and his cuffs and boots are fashionable, and when he thinks about other boys in the quiet of the night, he thinks about what it would have been like to grow up as one of them. To have been treated like an heir, not a maid. To have a mother and a father, not a Boss.

Not a Spain.

Romano devotes hours and hours of his time to thinking about what it would have been like not to have had a Spain. That life would have been a lot less frightening, for sure, Romano thinks as the wind scrapes through the trees outside his window. There would have been no threat of a cheek-pinching at any moment. There still is that threat, even now, even though Romano has grown up into a fully-fledged _man_ , well, _young man_ , with a fancy cape to rest around his shoulders and his own sword. These days Spain still wanders by the gardens while Romano delegates the cleaning to the human maids, lazing his way through the summer sunshine. And right when Romano is especially busy giving orders, Spain dares to grab him by the shoulders and whip his body around for a reminder of the horrors of the fifteen hundreds, and Romano’s cheeks stay red for days.

Days!

His fucking face is ruined for days, all because Spain is an idiot with no self-restraint, and as soon as he is able to Romano is going to get the hell out of Spain’s house, and that will show him. And when Romano is back home, back with his people, he will make speeches about how he finds mothers and fathers so much better than Spains, and everyone will listen to him and they’ll all agree. Just one look at Spain would make them agree, Romano knows, and he thinks about _that_ every night.

Spain’s eyes aren’t trustworthy, for one, they’re the eyes of someone who will cheat you and steal you from your house, and they make your head hurt when you look at them for too long. They’re the eyes of a monster who goes away for too long, and eats Romano’s portion of the dessert even when Romano makes the cook promise that the whole cake belongs to Sicily, and he doesn’t even say he’s sorry when he’s done licking the cream from the corner of his mouth.

His fucking mouth.

Romano hates Spain’s mouth too.

His fucking mouth gives orders, dumb ones like, “Don’t go in that room, I don’t want the things in there to break,” or, “Don’t lie,” or the absolute worst: “Keep yourself pure.”

Pure?

_Pure?!_

Who the fuck is Spain to say something like that to Romano! Romano is a fucking saint, he’s twice a saint, he’s the whole goddamned angelic choir, and he’s a _good boy_. Man. Young man. Romano is a good young protectorate, and he’ll be an even better young nation soon, he can feel it in his limbs, and he doesn’t need somebody like Spain telling him to be pure. Romano goes to twice as many masses as Spain does, since Spain is only ever home for one or two of them anyway, and vespers too, and even the early ones sometimes, since all the bishops say nice things to him and the vicars give him sweets. Not that Romano can still be bought with sweets, that’s the mark of a child, a boy, but he appreciates their obvious deference to the proper order of things. They coddle Romano much more than they try and kiss Spain’s ass, not that Romano ever thinks anything about Spain’s ass ever even in metaphor _it’s not like that_ , which means they know who’s more important to God in the long run. Although they kiss up to the Papal States most of all, and Romano thinks the Papal States is a dirty old perverted bastard.

But at least the priests and the monks get the important part right, and that’s the part where Romano has more purity in his little finger than Spain has in all of his lands. If anyone should be lecturing on keeping pure, it’s Romano to Spain, because Spain’s entire body is a sin.

Lands.

Spain’s entire land is a realm of sin, except for the part where Romano lives, and for the part with the maids who are pretty and nice to him; except for those parts, Spain’s land is made entirely of vice and sin, and not even something like Romano’s pardon could save him.

“Save me?” Spain says, always, when he catches Romano muttering to himself. Sweeping. When he catches Romano sweeping like the brave and fucking heroic young protectorate Romano is. “First I should save the floors from _you_.”

And then Romano headbutts him. Always.

But.

When Romano reflects on other boys at night, when his thoughts invariably shift to Spain, he thinks about why Spain would say something like that. Is it… a compliment? Does Spain think Romano’s managed to get himself a lover—

That is to say!

Th-that Romano’s finally chosen a lover from the many women who throw themselves at his feet?! That Romano’s spent all night inside a woman’s chamber, o-or, or kissed her underneath the trees outside Spain’s study window, where all the knights used to take their lady loves back when Romano hadn’t been tall enough for boots or cuffs?

Romano feels a rush of pride at that thought, against himself. He swells with it, and it makes his face hot and red, just like when Spain touches his cheeks and grabs them and rubs them back and forth until Romano can’t stand it anymore. And, instead of making him angry, those thoughts only make Romano swell more and more for reasons he completely does not understand. But then his thoughts, which he hates, take another mad carriage turn and he wonders whether Spain thinks Romano needs to be told because he’s too stupid to remember it himself. That he’s some kind of vile sinner, and that thought does make Romano angry, every time he thinks it, without exception.

“I’m not,” he mutters to himself in the night, “I’m not.” The chant is almost taken up by the woodwork in his room, for as often as the furniture pieces hear it they know it by heart. “It’s Spain who’s dirty, not me. It’s Spain. It’s Spain’s eyes, always watching me, and Spain’s mouth, always telling me to do things, and Spain’s arms, always dragging me around, and his hands, always pinching me, and his chest, always holding me when I don’t want to be held.”

Men don’t ever want to be held! Except, apparently, for Spain, who holds Romano whenever he is able, even when Romano is covered in muck he’s been too busy to wash off. Except that’s probably because Spain’s too dumb to notice things like that, the dirt and the stains, because he wasn’t the one blessed with brains. Spain was blessed with other things, like his eyes and his mouth and.

And his arms.

And his hands.

And his chest.

And in the night, when Romano is alone with the stillness of the house, he thinks about how no one needs to talk to him about purity because this is all Spain’s fault. Not Romano’s. It’s Spain’s fault how Romano’s hands drift under the covers, and it’s Spain’s fault the squirrels keep coming —not like that!— to visit even though Romano has a sword now, and boots and cuffs, and he can fight them off if he pleases. It’s just that he doesn’t please.

Well. He _does_ , but. But!

But exactly like that.


	2. he owns the sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you love something, let it go. Or, chain it inside a gilded cage and occasionally jab at it with a sharp stick representing your tireless devotion. You know. Either one of those.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally at [my writing tumblr](http://counterheist.tumblr.com/post/46219127890/fic-he-owns-the-sun).

It’s like this: Spain loves to own things. He loves the feeling of gold slipping through his fingers to rest again on the floor of a vault, underneath his wine cellar, underneath his house, underneath his banner. His. Spain doesn’t love things very much, no, things all by themselves bore him, but he loves to own them. He loves his collections of paintings and his rooms full of gold as though they were his own flesh and his own dark thick blood. It’s exactly the same with the others. Those not-quite-countries.

Them.

_Him._

Spain loves having his own little protectorate, so small, and fragile, and needy, and _his_. In fact, Spain wishes he had more. He wishes he had all of them, all that the known world has found and all they ever will, he wants them, he wants, he wants, he’s going to have them and in the waning light slanting in through his study windows he realizes that he’s destroyed another pen, and another container of ink, and he stares blankly at the mess before carefully picking the shards of glass out of his hand.

His blood follows them as he rips them out of his leather gloves, and he takes a deep breath.

In the past he didn’t have to remind himself half as often to be calm. In the past that sort of thing came naturally; or, well, to be honest, really honest, _entirely_ honest, he was never calm when he was young. But when he was young, too small for his shirt and too small for his land and much too small for Rome’s large heavy hands, it hadn’t mattered. Children don’t need to be calm. Territories don’t need to be calm. Spain’s mother had brought all the calm his people had needed, until she’d left, and so it shouldn’t surprise him that he never learned how to do the same.

But.

Still.

He has to be calm or else the stewards will upset themselves again. They titter to themselves over every scratch he gets, and the buzz upsets his temper and then everything gets worse from there and the only fix for it is love.

Pure love.

True love.

The cold gold shining circular love made out of silver candlesticks and yellowing paper with sixteen different wax seals and so many signatures signing away so many leagues of land to him. His. All _his_. He stands halfway through his task and begins to walk out to the gardens. Continuing his previous work without pause, thin fingers gracefully curved together, to a point, he sheds splinters of glass as he goes, and red mixed with Bombay black fall down to the carpet below his feet, hiding between patterns of red and gold and he’s so sure someone else will take care of it later that he doesn’t even pause.

It’s like this: Spain cares so much that he doesn’t care at all. The things at the forefront of his mind become life and death. Everything else could throw itself past the gates of hell into the abyss before he’d ever notice, and what does it matter? He owns everything he sees.

He owns the sun.

He has someone to find, and he owns _this_ person too.

Spain finds this person in the gardens, slacking as usual, skin dark against his starched white collar despite the wine stains and cake crumbs. Spain grins even though his hand is still bleeding, because if there’s something he loves even more than the act of owning it’s the act of acting on his ownership. Or. He.

Enough.

He shakes his head to rid it of troublesome thoughts and steps off the little paved path surrounding the bushes and low flowering trees, tramples the grass beneath his feet, and stops directly behind where Romano is trying to look down the front of a maid’s blouse. Spain would laugh to himself because Romano is barely tall enough to do any peeking, what a ridiculous child, but a hot heavy surge of annoyance takes him much further down the line and with an extra shake of his head the maid is scurrying off and Romano is turning around in complete, perfect, innocent surprise.

Or, as innocent as Romano ever gets. “What do you want, bastard!?” he shouts, hands on his hips.

“You,” Spain pauses, grinning, canines glinting, and oh if only, “haven’t finished your sweeping.”

Romano’s face colors, more like a ruby than anything this time although Spain would cite tomatoes until his hair falls out. His cheeks puff, and his hands clench the air, and the toe of his white leather boot traces circles in the dirt beneath their feet.

Spain will have to have the gardener beaten if his grounds stay in such a state for long. There isn’t any excuse for imperfection in the house of the King, even if the King barely ever leaves his bedchambers. This is an empire with standards that reach to the heavens and everything that Spain can see is his, which means that everything that Spain sees has to be perfect, shining, beyond perfect, _gold._

And there is no excuse for patches of dirt in the gardens.

It’s like this: the things at the top of Spain’s attention are always the things he thinks he can fix. Can take, and change, and remold into something far, far better. Better in the scheme of things. Better for the empire. Better for Spain.

His.

And Romano’s talking again, but his little red-faced blusters are packets of lies and Spain knows _that_ will never change so he doesn’t bother to take them in. Instead he takes off his right-hand glove with his teeth, bites down on the leather hard, harder, it’s a mark that will never go away. He bites, and he takes his naked hand, and he cups Romano’s round little liar’s cheek. Romano’s little liar’s words halt immediately and the garden comes back to a peaceful silence that Spain reflects is probably exactly as calm as he should always be. This kind of calm is probably better for the health of his writing utensils.

Romano stares.

Spain grins.

“I want you to finish sweeping,” his nails begin to slowly sink into Romano’s skin, so soft, so smooth, “my treasure, or else I will take the rod from your tutors and whip you myself.”

Romano gulps.

Spain doesn’t miss it.

He grins further, and the glove, adorned with red and black, glass shining in the yellow light, slips to the ground. His teeth clack together for want of it.

“Am I clear?” he singsongs.

Romano nods.

“Good,” Spain says with a laughing lilt, and when he lets his hand fall there are little pricks of red on Romano’s face as well, and something that’s not entirely hate in his eyes, his little liar’s eyes, and Spain’s head hurts with everything he’s thinking but the thing that stands out is the heady rush of ownership. He whistles as he walks back to his office, the one that overlooks the garden, and he muses about what he will punish Romano with next, anticipates the swish of the cane, the crack of bones, the creak of wood, and in the moment when he sits in his high-backed chair and watches Romano scrape his broom over the garden tiles he feels a euphoria so deep it’s as though his veins are flush full of opium gained by conquest.

It feels like he’s killed a thousand men, like he’s won a thousand battles, like he’s been paid ten thousand tributes and he lets the rush of feeling wash over him with a dragon’s delight.

It’s like this: once Spain has his treasure in his hands, he never lets it go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent 5 minutes trying to figure out when India ink would have gotten to Spain before giving up. Ahhh, my googlefu, it has weakened with time. Also I swear to all that is starchy and good I couldn’t figure out a good closing line so I left it like that. Argh I hate it when I can’t think of a closer that I like.


End file.
